


We've Gone Astray

by slutpunk



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dreams and Nightmares, Headaches & Migraines, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Murder, Past Character Death, Sniper Armitage Hux, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8668105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slutpunk/pseuds/slutpunk
Summary: Kylo Ren’s life sucks. His dad died, then his mom, then it turned out his mom was actually a mass murdering psycho. All he’s got left to show for it is an empty bank account, crazy stalkers, no job, and the family dog. It sucks. Until somebody attacks him and Kylo--who’s never won a single fight in his life--lands a perfect roundhouse kick hard enough to break their neck. Suddenly, his mind is bursting with memories from another life--from a thousand other lives. He is a Sequel. A Soldier in a war that’s been raging since the beginning of time. He has a Target; they are drawn together by fate, they fight until one is dead and there is a victor. The victor takes themselves out and follows the Target into the next life. Kylo Ren is going to die.Armitage Hux has been waiting for this day since he was eight years old.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of the comic book series [Welcome Back](http://readcomiconline.to/Comic/Welcome-Back) which I highly recommend everyone pick up!
> 
> Thank you to my darling, [isharan](http://isharan.tumblr.com/) for betaing and being wonderful all the time, in general! xoxo
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://slutstiels.tumblr.com/) if you want to send me more prompts or just chat! :D
> 
> Thank you for reading and enjoy!

**163 Years Ago**

The streets are quiet as she walks, damp with freshly fallen rain. She can hear the sounds of guests being tended to in the teahouses along the water, the lights of their lanterns bright and cheerful. The train of her kimono will be soaked by the time she gets home, but it’s such a peaceful night that she can’t find the will to be upset over it. 

He stands at the end of the pier, waiting for her in the dark, the glow of his cigarette the only indication of his presence. He’s thin enough to be almost frail, but she knows he has a quiet strength. She walks up to him, leaning against the railing and peering down at the Kamo River. 

“I was wondering when you would find me,” she says in perfect English, though she’s never spoken it before now. She could say anything in a thousand languages and he would understand. He always did. 

He just looks at her, smile mostly hidden under a bushy mustache. 

They stand together for a while, quiet and reflective, just watching the water. 

“You should see the river in March, when the sakura blossoms blow into the water. It’s very beautiful.” 

“I have,” he says, looking over at her. He’s much taller than she is this time; her head only reaches his shoulder. It’s nice. “But it was a lifetime or two ago.” 

They share a secret smile and turn back to the water. 

“Are you ready—” she starts.

“Let’s go get some tea,” he says quickly, turning to face her fully now. “There’s a great place, quiet, none of them will find us there.” 

She hesitates, remembering, then smiles. “All right.” 

He looks relieved, the wrinkles around his dark eyes crinkling with another grin. “All right.”

She waits until his back is turned before drawing the knife hidden in her long sleeves. She buries the blade up under his ribcage and right into his heart, giving him the release of a swift death. He lets out only a gasp, staggering back as his legs give out and she braces her own legs to hold him upright. She sinks to the ground with him, withdrawing the knife to let his blood flow out. He writhes in her arms, trying to fight instinctively for his life when he always knew that this was coming, that  _ she _ was coming for him. She smoothes back his hair, hushing him as she waits. 

“It’s all right, I’ll see you again soon. Soon,” she says over and over, his hand clutched in her embroidered silk. When he’s gone, his eyes are still open, staring up at her.

She takes the knife then, taking one deep breath before she pushes the sharp tip up and into her own heart as well. It’s poetic this way, she thinks, even as the pain pierces through her, sharp and familiar, more blood flooding onto them both. She can’t keep herself upright any longer and falls forward over his chest, her cheek pressed to his side. 

As the blood flows out of her, she can’t help wondering what it would be like if they had made another choice. If they had any other choice. But it’s too late now. 

Perhaps in the next life. 

 

**Day: 0**

The rocks have been biting into his skin for hours. He’s laid out on his stomach, elbows digging into the ground to hold his rifle close and he can feel each pebble cutting through the layers he wears. Even the slightest breeze sends dirt flying into his eyes, making him wish he’d worn those silly protective goggles the Grunts always try to hide in his pack. But they cloud his vision, distance him from his scope, cost him his concentration. He does better without. 

Through the scope, he watches as a man and a woman step out onto the balcony of their hotel room. He knows the name of each, but it doesn’t matter. They are targets now, nothing more.

The targets are 2,500 meters away, making it the longest shot he’s ever attempted. The thought makes him queasy, nervous, but he swallows past it. He slipped through the vast desert to find this oasis, waited for days for them to make a mistake. 

Now there’s nothing left but to take the shot.

He breathes deep, finger resting just next to the trigger as he aligns his target. The crosshairs of his scope find the target’s forehead. The man’s face breaks into a brilliant, sweet smile as he laces his fingers with the woman’s. He exhales, finger shifting to the trigger and squeezing gently. The long rifle in his grip jerks and he watches through the scope as, moments later, the bullet rips through his targets skull. 

He takes a moment—only one moment—to watch as the body falls, the weight of it nearly dragging the woman down with it where their hands are joined, her scream not audible from this distance. She’s reaching for the gun tucked into her waistband, turning to track where the shot is coming from. He gets a glimpse of the fury on her face and the tears streaking down her cheeks before he squeezes the trigger again and she’s gone too. The bodies lay beside each other, heads turned toward one another, fingertips touching. He doesn’t worry about them being found, about the mess; that’s not his job.

Maybe next time they’ll remember their purpose. If they come back at all. 

He packs quickly, his gun disassembled and slung over his shoulders in less than thirty seconds (not his best time, but good enough). He rappels down the cliffside easily, choosing speed over stealth this time. 

A chime sounds in his ear and his feet just touch the ground as he presses the button on his earpiece to answer. 

“Hux.” 

“Report.”

“It’s taken care of.”

“Good. We have news—he’s waking up.”

Hux cuts the call, gun bag heavy on his back as he runs, aches and pains from staying so still for so long throbbing through his body, throat dry and painful from so many hours without food or water. 

But, as he runs across the desert, he smiles, sharp and vicious.

 

**Day: 3**

It's pouring rain; it hasn't stopped for days. 

It suits Kylo's mood, though he can't stand the wet and the cold that comes with it. He stomps down the street, barely warmed by his hoodie and faux leather jacket. Music pounds through his headphones, obnoxiously loud. It's only making his head hurt even more, but the pain has only been getting worse and worse for the past four days and he's given up on fixing it. He's been prone to migraines since he was a teenager, but never this bad. Never lasting this long, and even then it didn't hurt this damn bad. He tried hot compresses on his forehead, about five different painkillers, he even tried one of Poe’s stupid herbal teas, but all it did was give him the runs. 

He's resigned to it now. Seems like it’s his lot in life to be miserable  _ constantly _ . 

Twenty-nine years old, both parents dead, in debt up to his eyeballs, no job, and now he's probably dying, but he can't afford the trip to the walk-in clinic.

Sometimes he really wonders why the fuck he bothers sticking around. 

The back of his neck tingles and he turns, checking the shadows for movement. Damn it. He should know better than to take the shortcut home at this hour, but all he could think about was getting home to his bed and his dog. There’s a crash of noise down the alley and Kylo definitely  _ doesn’t _ startle at the sound. It could be a cat, a raccoon, it could be anything, but he feels like he’s being  _ watched _ and it’s all too familiar—

There. The shape of a person seems to melt out of the shadows and they’re looking right at him. He can feel it. The spike of fear in his throat just infuriates him. He should be used to this, he shouldn’t be afraid anymore, but he always is. 

“If you’re following me, dickwad, you can fuck off! I’ve got a knife!” That’s a lie. He forgot the knife at home. 

The shadow doesn’t move and Kylo doesn’t want to turn his back. But he’s always been a fast runner and he’s so close to being home. 

So he runs. He runs as fast as his long legs can carry him, which is really fucking fast. Better to run and live than to stick around and get shanked by a crazy person. He doesn’t stop to check if he’s being followed, he focuses only on the pound of his feet on the sidewalk and the distance between him and  _ home _ .

The apartment building looks like it’s about to fall apart with cracked concrete walls, fire escapes that could never hope to pass an inspection, an overgrown front lawn, and doors that never quite shut right. The sight of it fills Kylo with relief. He quickly keys in the access code for the front door, yanking it open as soon as the lock releases and slamming it shut behind him. When he looks outside the small windows, there’s no shadow following him, no figure lurking out there in the dark. 

“Fuck,” Kylo grunts out, slumping against the wall to catch his breath, finally feeling some of that fear release in his chest. He’s been living like this for too long. 

Eventually, he forces himself to move, to start the long climb up to the fifth floor. 

He moved again just six years ago, hoping to escape his past and the extended family that pretended to care about him. Every time his cousin, Rey, looked at him, Kylo could see what she was thinking, could feel the pity in her gaze. She was too young to remember that night, the night her father was murdered by Kylo's mother, but she thought she understood him. 

Maybe Kylo was supposed to feel bad for her too, but he didn’t want or need her pity, or anyone else's, thank you  _ very _ fucking much. 

Moving was supposed to give him a fresh start, somewhere new where no one knew who he was, who his family was. Ben Organa-Solo had tried to be a lot of things, tried to move on with his life—went to college, even. All he got out of that was an art history degree no one cared about and a lifetime of debt. He hadn’t had any peace then either, not when his stalkers only seemed to get better and better at tracking him down. 

That’s what happens when your mom, the state governor, kills your uncle, then herself,  _ and _ it turns out she was America's most accomplished serial killer in her spare time. 

So he left behind the name Ben Solo, killed the boy who had already lost so much, and became someone else. 

Kylo Ren. A name he’d found in some random science fiction novel at the library, so different from his own that he would never be found. He would be free. 

Leaving helped. No more camera crews camping outside his house, following him to school, shouting questions like, ‘How does it feel knowing your mother murdered forty-nine people? How do you cope with the trauma of losing what was left of your family in one night? How do you live with yourself?’ Like he fucking knew the answer to any of that off the top of his head. All the therapy his parents’ life insurance policy could buy couldn’t help him answer that. 

No more freaks who claimed they ‘understood his pain,’ no more bible thumpers who wanted him to repent for his mother’s sins. No more of the scary ones who threatened to kill him for what she did. No more of the  _ really _ bad ones, the ones who wanted to know how she’d done it, asked him for the intimate details of her kills. 

Leaving meant not having it shoved in his face anymore, not having to think about it ever again. 

Still, there are some days when the anger seeps away and the loneliness is too much. He really misses his parents on those days. 

Kylo strides up the stairs to the apartment’s front entrance with keys in hand, eager to get out of his wet clothes, to curl up in his bed and spend the rest of the night feeling sorry for himself. 

As soon as he opens the door, he’s bombarded by a barking mass of brown fur. 

“Hey, buddy,” Kylo greets, pushing some enthusiasm into his voice as the dog runs excited circles around his legs. Kylo drops his bag carelessly to the floor, crouching down to accept Chewie’s gross licks and scratch behind his ears. 

His mom got Chewie not long after dad died. Said he reminded her of Han, which Kylo never understood. He’d tried to hate Chewie for a long time, but it was impossible not to like the big mutt when he was always so happy to see Kylo. 

“He missed you,” Poe says from the couch, a bowl of cereal balanced in one hand, not even looking away from the TV, though his lips are twitched up into a smirk. 

“He always does.” Most days it feels like Chewie is the only one. 

The apartment is shitty. There’s no real living room, just one small area with a couple ratty couches shoved against walls and a TV on top of a crate. The stained dining table is something they salvaged off the street with two chairs they found a couple blocks down. The kitchen is only cleaned when they’re feeling particularly active, which they almost never are. There’s no hallway, just three doors in the living room, one leading to a bathroom (the shower  _ never _ drains properly) and two to closet-sized bedrooms. 

Kylo leaves his bag where he dropped it, beelining for his room with Chewie on his heels. He changes out of his wet clothes and into sweatpants and a t-shirt. He had planned on sleep, but suddenly his bed seems too large, too empty. He heads back to the living room before he can really consider it, shoving his wet hair back and tying it up and out of the way. He sits on the other end of the couch, stretching his legs out to rest his feet on the coffee table. Chewie promptly follows, getting as much of his gigantic body into Kylo’s lap as he possibly can. 

“What are we watching?” 

“A documentary on jet planes.”

“Nerd.”

Poe just nods, his eyes riveted on the screen.

Kylo likes Poe; he's nice, he doesn't try to be Kylo’s friend, he pays his share of the rent on time. He's a good guy. 

“Mail came for you,” Poe says, taking his eyes off the TV long enough to stretch his arm forward and grab the stack of mail from the coffee table, dumping it in Kylo's lap. 

Poe Dameron is an asshole. 

“I told you to just throw it all out,” Kylo snaps, shooting a glare that Poe either doesn’t see or purposefully ignores before starting to shift through the pile. 

See, moving was supposed to fix everything for him. And it did, for a little while. 

Until it didn’t anymore. 

Kylo doesn’t know how—he’s pretty sure he doesn’t wanna know—but some of them have managed to find him still. He gets text messages from numbers that only lead to dead phones, he feels strangers in the street staring at him as he passes by, and then there’s the mail. 

He received the first letter years ago.

_ Dear Ben,  _

_ I know how you feel _

Kylo immediately burned that letter and all the rest he’d gotten that day. He’d tried to burn the second batch of them when those came too, but Poe had screamed at him about “fire hazards” and “setting the building on fire” so Kylo stopped. Now he just threw them straight into the trash can. 

“There's one from your cousin,” Poe says as an explanation. 

“What?” Kylo sees it now, right on top of all the rest. There's at least a million international stamps on it and the return address is for somewhere in Nepal. 

Kylo's never really been sure what exactly it is that his uncle did for a living; something about anthropology. Rey’s following in his footsteps it seems. Kylo should probably be happy for her. She was so much younger than he was when it happened and she always said that she didn’t remember much, but he knew she lost as much as he did that night. But she was able to move on, to do something with her life. 

He never had that choice, thanks to his mom.

Jealousy chokes him, anger makes it hard to breathe. The pain in his head becomes almost blinding.

He takes deep satisfaction in ripping her letter to shreds and throwing the pieces of it in the trash with the rest of the mail. 

Poe’s eyes are on him. Kylo ignores him. 

“I'm going to bed.” He doesn't even feel tired, but he can't think of any other escape than sleep. 

Poe shouts, “Goodnight!” at his back, but Kylo doesn’t bother responding. He waits until Chewie gets in before slamming the bedroom door a little harder than necessary. Then he just stands there, staring at the mess of clothes strewn across the floor, the dirty dishes, the piles of junk, the fist-sized holes in the wall. The only clean item in the entire room is his grandfather’s guitar, seated reverently in a stand in the corner of the room. 

The anger in him roils, demanding a release. He used to throw fits when he was younger. They got bad when dad died, then even worse after mom. Now he has some control over it, manages to restrain himself to slamming his fist into the wall only three times. 

The pain helps drag his mind away. 

He flops into bed, but there’s still a restless tingle in him, something needing to be sated. He considers jerking off, but it seems like too much effort. Plus, it always feels weird to do it when Chewie’s in the room; he can feel the dog judging him every time. 

Fuck, his head hurts. 

He closes his eyes, pulling at his hair to alleviate the migraine, but it doesn’t change anything so he gives up and curls himself up around a pillow. It will probably take him hours to fall asleep now, but—

_ It was always going to end like this.  _

_ He stares across the vast emptiness of the battlefield, a sea of bodies between him and _ —

_ There. A figure, standing firm amid the rushing horde.  _

_ Suddenly, nothing else matters, but that figure.  _

_ He doesn’t remember slicing through the bodies to get to the figure, but then he’s there.  _

_ It feels like coming home.  _

_ Their swords swing and clash, the other is so strong it feels like his arms will break. But he finds enough strength to land a blow, to slice through the skin of the other’s sword arm.  _

_ It leaves him open just enough to receive a cut of his own, across his shoulder and up to his face. It hurts like hell.  _

_ They face each other, swords raised and ready, breathing hard.  _

_ “We can walk away,” he says in a language he’s never heard before.  _

_ The other just shakes his head.  _

_ “Never.”  _

_ They clash again and again until pain lances through his arm, then his stomach, then his leg. Deep, oozing gashes that finally bring him to his knees.  _

_ The other looms over him, slumping forward with wounds of his own, gifts to remember him by.  _

_ “You cannot escape fate,” the other says, raising his sword. _

_ He acts first, driving his blade deep into the other’s gut. He watches pain contort the other’s face, watches them fall to the ground before him.  _

_ He watches the other die, again.  _

_ He runs himself through too, but by then the pain is barely noticeable. He lays down beside the other and whispers _ —

Pain startles Kylo awake, has him writhing in his bed. It’s everywhere, he’s been sliced open, his face—fuck—his  _ face _ —

How the fuck he manages to lurch to his feet when so much of him is bleeding, Kylo will never know. He stumbles his way through the dark living room and into the bathroom, fumbling for the light. It’s so bright he has to shield his eyes, cradling the open wound across his face with one big hand while the other fumbles with the medicine cabinet. 

Fuck, he’s probably gonna need stitches for this, he can’t afford it, he’s so fucked. 

His eyes adjust and he faces the mirror, bracing himself for the ugly wound he knows will be there. Cautiously, he pulls his hand away—

Nothing. 

There’s nothing. 

Kylo’s fingers press at his skin, tug and pull, looking for the wound, for the source of his pain. But the pain is gone too, leaving only his throbbing head. Frantically, he fumbles for his shirt, for the gaping hole run through his stomach, but that’s gone too. He can’t help pawing at the freckled skin, digging his fingers in as though he can rip open the wound. 

But he  _ felt _ it, he felt every slash, every cut ripping open his skin. He felt the strain in his arms as his sword clashed with the other’s, but now… 

_ Fuck _ . This fucking migraine is fucking with him. He’s probably dying, got a fucking  _ tumor _ eating away at his brain and he can’t do anything about it. He leans heavily on the sink, head wracked with pain, shaking with the leftover adrenaline and stares into the mirror. 

His dark hair came mostly loose from his hair tie during his sleep and now sticks to his face with sweat. The bags under his eyes are deep and almost grey, the sickly paleness of his skin makes his moles stand out darker than usual, his lips are so chapped they’re split and bloody. 

He looks like a fucking mess. 

And now he’s probably dying. 

He looks at himself in that mirror and tries to decide if he cares whether or not he dies from a tumor or whatever the fuck this shit is. It’s not like he has anyone left who really cares (Rey doesn’t count). 

Poe? If Kylo dies then Poe can share the lease with someone else, someone who actually pays rent on time, who pays his share of the bills. Not that Poe ever complains, he’s never been anything but kind to Kylo. Still, he can’t help feeling guilty. 

Something cold and wet nudges against the skin of his elbow and Kylo looks down to see Chewie standing beside him, big brown eyes distinctly worried. Chewie would miss him. Chewie doesn’t like anybody really, except for Kylo and Poe. 

And mom.

Kylo’s knees are shaking so he sits down on the lid of the toilet seat, his head swimming with pain at the movement. Immediately, Chewie lays his big head in Kylo’s lap and Kylo feels something snap in his chest. 

“I’m scared,” he whispers to the dog, hating the way his voice breaks. He clenches his jaw tight, feeling the tears spring to his eyes and telling himself it’s just the pain of the headache that’s causing them. 

Chewie whines and Kylo indulges himself finally, folding over Chewie’s head and hugging him close. The dog just sits still, letting Kylo’s tears seep into his fur. 

 

**Day: 5**

Honestly, it’s probably not a good idea for Kylo go out.

His head is  _ still _ killing him, slowly and painfully. Kylo thought he might have gotten used to the pain by now, but no, it’s just getting worse and worse. He fights off the nausea with a constant supply of ginger ale. He barely eats more than toast and crackers, and he looks like a pretentious  _ dick _ now that he has to wear sunglasses at night ‘cause every single light feels like it’s searing his eyeballs out of his head. 

So, when Poe asks him if he wants to go to a house party, Kylo does the obvious thing and agrees. 

If he’s gonna die, he might as well enjoy the time he has left and pretend the thought doesn’t terrify him. 

The thing is, Kylo is  _ really good _ at parties. 

Party-Kylo is very different from Normal-Kylo. He’s sociable, he laughs the loudest, he moves from group to group and fits in with every single one. He does shots, he nurses beer, he accepts the blunt when it’s passed to him. He plays beer pong, he plays Never Have I Ever, he dances like an asshole. 

It’s so easy to become someone else that it’s hardly even fun anymore. 

He lost track of Poe hours ago, almost as soon as they stepped through the front door. Now Kylo’s leaving with someone else, a girl with violently red hair that definitely came out of a box. He’s got an arm around her shoulders and they stumble off together, zig-zagging along the sidewalk, while she babbles about her band in his ear. He’s not sure where they’re going, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? 

He’s gonna die anyway. 

Kylo hears it first, the crunch of gravel beneath the steps of someone else behind them and his head throbs with pain and warning. Time seems to slow then, drags down to a crawl. He’s turning to look, trying to fight the ever-present instinct that tells him to  _ run _ , when he sees the bottle swinging for his head. He acts on instinct alone, even as fear clogs up his throat, manages to bring his arm up to shield his face—dreams of his skin being split are still fresh in his mind—just before it connects. Agony explodes on the crown of his head and glass shatters around him. 

“ _ Nos iterum occurret _ .” The words feel like they’re whispered directly into his ear and the pain in his head sharpens, feels like it’s going to make his brain ooze out of his ears and then—

It stops. 

Kylo’s on his knees, cradling his head, trying not to throw up, and he can faintly hear people yelling, can hear the girl screaming, but it’s nothing compared to the chaos in his brain. 

He feels like his consciousness is being  _ replaced _ with something different, something new. 

Something old. 

He’s struggling to his feet before he realizes it, head swimming with pain and booze, and when he turns to face his attacker, it’s just a girl. Young and dark-skinned and determined. There’s a broken bottle in her hand that she throws down with a grin. 

“ _ There _ you are.” She reaches into her pockets and Kylo panics, remembers a thousand different bullets riddling his body, remembers a thousand deaths that taste like gunpowder. 

Instead, the girl pulls out a pair of short rods that expand into batons with an expert flick of her wrist. 

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Kylo has enough time to sputter before the girl’s charging at him, looking like a fucking  _ ninja _ with how she slashes lightning fast at Kylo. 

Kylo’s been in plenty of fights before, but none where he’s actually come out on the good side. 

Somehow Kylo dodges. He reacts on pure instinct, ducking and deflecting and backing up, trying to put some space between him and his attacker, trying to get his bearings. He hardly dares to breathe through it all, doesn’t want to fuck it up, but even when he manages to gasp in air, he doesn’t stop. His head feels like it’s been cracked open and sometimes his vision doubles. He can hear Poe screaming in the crowd, can see the glow of phones recording him, but he keeps dodging. 

The girl starts to look worried. 

Abruptly, something snaps in Kylo, reacting to her worry—her  _ weakness _ —like a shark scenting blood in the water. He sees the opening and strikes, and suddenly he’s not just himself anymore. He’s still Ben, still Kylo, but he’s someone else too. 

Someone dangerous. 

It only takes an instant. He takes a wide step forward, fists up and elbows high, bends and lifts his right leg, snaps his foot forward, and feels his shin connect with the girl’s head. Kylo pivots on the balls of his left foot and by the time he’s facing the kid again, she’s on the ground, completely still. 

The only sound that fills the air is Kylo’s harsh breathing. It feels right.  _ He  _ feels right. Complete. 

It feels like coming home.

“Oh,  _ fuck! _ ” Poe shouts, breaking the spell of silence over the crowd and rushing towards the girl. “What the fuck man, you could have  _ killed her _ .” 

Oh,  _ fuck _ . 

Oh fuck, oh fuck, ohfuckohfuckohfuck—

Kylo barely feels the people touching his arm, touching his head, barely hears them asking if he’s okay. He can’t stop looking at that girl with her splayed body and the bruise that’s already forming on her face and neck and  _ he could have killed her _ . 

Her hair is brown, just like Rey’s was the last time he saw her. Just like mom’s. 

He pulls away from the hands that try to grab at him, struggles free from them and runs. 

It must be late because the bus he jumps onto is completely empty. He blindly waves his pass at the driver before lurching to the corner in the very back and huddling there. His chest heaves with every breath he tries to drag in and he feels like he’s  _ drenched  _ in sweat. 

The bus is empty, but he’s not alone. 

His mind is crowded with sudden knowledge, with memories that are his, but aren’t. 

He’s a boy begging for food while an armored knight rides by and mud from the horse’s hoofs sprays him in the face. 

He’s in a jungle, hiding as American soldiers wade by and he holds his rifle tight against his breasts, waiting for the right moment to strike. 

He’s a man standing on a bridge, watching a beautiful woman in a kimono walk towards him with a faint smile on her face. 

When Kylo opens his eyes, it’s like he can see them, can see  _ himself. _ All the different versions, all the different lifetimes. 

It’s some seriously  _ fucked up shit. _

But it’s real.

He’s still trying to make sense of it, the memories flashing before his eyes, the line between the past and the present blurring. It takes him a moment to realize that the bus has stopped, to realize that the blue blur coming towards him is the bus driver. 

“Look, man,” he sighs, wishing this day—this nightmare—could just be over already. “My pass was legit, I’m just trying to get  _ home _ —” 

“There is no home for you now, Kylo.” 

What the  _ fuck _ ? 

There’s a gun pointing in his face and somehow, instead of fear, the sight of it infuriates him. 

Suddenly, the buzz and cacophony of memories halts and Kylo feels something he never thought he could. 

Purpose. 

He does the most violent thing he can think of, striking the man’s arm with his fist so hard he hears bones snap. The gun fires, but the bullet only shatters glass and Kylo catches the pistol when it drops from the man’s hand. The driver falls to the ground screaming, clutching at his arm and Kylo doesn’t give him the chance to get his bearings. 

He’s never held a gun before, never even seen one in real life. Kylo’s hands move with practiced ease, letting the clip free to check how many bullets are left. Sixteen. 

Perfect. 

Kylo reloads the clip and fires four shots: one each kneecap, another in the unbroken arm, and the final in the driver’s head. 

Kylo stares down at the bloody mess and wonders if this is what he’s been waiting for for so long. It’s not quite right though, not yet. He is powerful, he has the knowledge of a thousand, thousand lifetimes rattling in his mind, but even with his new (old) purpose flooding his veins there’s something he’s missing. 

Someone. 

When he steps off the bus with the driver’s gun curled loosely in his hand, he’s close enough to home that it takes him only ten minutes to walk. Already he’s planning the next stage, planning where he will go (anywhere he wants, he’s free now, so very free). He feels the adrenaline coursing through him, the vague horror at what he did, of what he’s done over the ages, but it’s dimmed by a sense of righteousness too. 

This is what he was meant for. 

He can feel them watching from the shadows and a smile curves his lips as he imagines the beautiful chaos that would erupt if they tried to come at him now. 

Kylo almost wants them to, but they stay back, stay in their shadows. 

He should probably be more concerned that the apartment door isn’t locked, even though he remembers locking it himself before they left, but instead there’s a demented kind of giddiness that wells up in the pit of his gut. 

It’s nice to feel something other than fear for once.

Light spills out from around the door and when Kylo pushes it open, it lets out the usual loud creak. The TV is on and Chewie comes over to greet Kylo just like always, bouncing on his toes and licking at Kylo’s hand. Kylo doesn’t crouch down this time though, just brushes a hand over Chewie’s head. From where he stands, he can see the shadow of someone moving, someone sitting on  _ his _ (that is, Poe’s) couch, watching  _ his _ (again, Poe’s) TV. Kylo takes a breath before moving into the living room proper, gun raised. 

A boy, no older than ten, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes sits on his couch, hunched over a bowl of popcorn balanced in his lap. But when he sees the gun and meets Kylo’s eyes, the boy sets the bowl aside and sits up, back straight and looking almost regal. He smiles then, a small slight thing that hits Kylo with a pang of familiarity. 

“Hi, Benny,” the boy says. 

It hurts to hear that, feels worse than the thousands of times he’s been stabbed and shot and beaten to death. There’s only one person who ever called him Benny in his entire life, only one person he ever allowed to call him that name. 

“ _ Mom?! _ ”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this has taken me LITERALLY MONTHS to put out, I'm really struggling to make sure that I do the comics justice, but also make sure it's telling a good story! hopefully it comes across well and I hope you enjoy
> 
> oodles and oodles of shoutouts are due to my dearest, beloved beta [isharan](http://isharan.tumblr.com/). my rock, my foundation, my dear, thank u so so much for putting up with my ranting! xoxo
> 
> please share, comment, kudos! it keeps me alive!

**Day: 5**

The room is dark, small. The walls are made from solid concrete with a single light dangling from the ceiling. There’s a low hum in the air that’s familiar, but hard to place; a fan probably or maybe an air filter, but it doesn’t do anything to clear the room of the stench of blood and piss. A man sits, hands cuffed to the arms of a metal chair that’s bolted to the floor. He’s sweating with fear, shaking and heaving out breaths that make the black hood over his head flutter.

Hux takes the man in, hopes that this one won’t break as easily as the last.

He lets the man sweat it out a little longer before he steps forward and yanks the hood away.

The man blinks furiously against the sudden glare of the light before taking in the figure towering over him: Tall, a little on the leaner side with pale skin covered in light freckles; bright red hair that seems to glow in the dimness of the room, face devoid of any emotion save for the slight curl of his lip. He wears simple black slacks and a collared black button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up over his forearms.

"It's _you_ ,” the man mutters, bewildered, “But—why? How?”

“Look closer,” Hux says, with patience.

He waits while the man peers at him like he's a puzzle, watches the realization—

The man curses low in a language that's been dead for a thousand years.

Hux's smile is twisted, more like a sneer than anything. He turns away when the man starts to blubber.

“How did you stay hidden? All this time?”

How unoriginal. They always ask the same thing. Hux selects a tool from the array of sleek metal laid out before him. The one he chooses is of his own design. He has created many, but this is his newest, still untested.

Well, no time like the present.

“It's not often,” Hux says, ignoring the man's question, “that I get to test my devices. Usually, I'm given only a target and a deadline to meet. Not that I'm complaining, I do enjoy my work very much. But I so rarely have the opportunity to take my time, so I try to make the most of it when I can.”

Hux turns, holding a metal circlet with a mess of wires spilling from four points. The man stares in confusion.

“I realize it's not very pretty to look at but perhaps—with your help—that can change.”

Hux has to wrestle the man’s head still to attach the device properly.

“Please!” the man sputters, when Hux steps back to survey his work. “I'll tell you what you want to know. You don't have to do this—I—I've been out for _years_ , I've been hiding just like you! I—I can tell you where he is!”

Hux stops the adjustments he’s making on a small remote covered with switches and red buttons. The man gasps with relief.

“ _‘He’_?”

“Yes! Yes—we—they tried to hide him, but his mother—we know everything, I'll tell you _everything_!”

Hux pauses to take this in. It feels right, somehow, that his Target is male this time around. And he _does_ need to know _everything_ about his Target; his whereabouts would be especially helpful. But still, that can wait. Hux turns back to his work.

“Wait! Wait! I said I'll talk! I'll _talk_!”

Hux rigs the remote to a generator and fiddles with the settings until he’s satisfied.

“Of course you'll talk,” Hux says, standing tall over the other man, that twisted grin on his face again. “But we've got work to do first.”

The man pales, tugging frantically at the cuffs around his wrists. His wide eyes are fixed on Hux as he begs to be released, promises to give Hux whatever he wants.

“Please, it will hurt less if you hold still,” Hux says over the man's fractured pleas.

The man starts to sob, thrashing wildly, and the distinct scent of fresh piss hits the air.

“Maybe,” he amends, then flips the switch.

The man’s scream lasts for only a moment before his face is almost frozen like that, mouth open wide in a silent scream, his whole body pulled taut.

Hux turns off the device, setting the remote down and watching carefully as the man’s body sags back in the chair. He’s still got a pulse, beating frantically under Hux’s fingers. Blood oozes out of his ear.

“Interesting.”

 

This can't be real. This can't be happening.

Kylo sits on the couch, head in his hands. He hardly notices that he's still clinging to the gun, the hot metal pressed against his temple. Small hands grab for his and he follows the pull of them, allows the gun to be pried from his fingers.

“Safety first, dear.” Little fingers—still soft with baby fat—thumb the gun’s safety lock on before handing it back.

Kylo looks up, takes in the face of the child before him. Chubby cheeks, bright eyes, white-blonde hair, a blue hoodie open over a white shirt with a smiling duck and wearing fleece pajama pants with the same smiling duck patterned on it. Like a cherub out of a Renaissance painting.

A cherub who knows his way around a handgun.

“It's really you, isn't it?” Kylo says.

“Yeah, Benny,” the boy—his _mom_ —smiles softly, so soft it’s almost sad. “It's me.”

“ _How_?”

The boy’s smile fades. “You know how.” Mom turns away, heading for Kylo’s bedroom. Chewie bounds after Mom eagerly. If that isn't proof enough of who the boy is, nothing will be. “Come on. We've got to go.”

“ _Where?_ ”

“To meet your Atlas!” Mom shouts over his shoulder.

Of _course_. The all-knowing Atlases. How could he forget?

Kylo follows them, tucking the gun into the waist of his jeans.

“But _how_?” he asks again, standing useless in the doorway as Mom drags a duffel bag as big as his child body out of the closet. “Does this shit, like, run in the family or something?”

“Sometimes,” Mom says as he dumps the bag on the bed and goes for Kylo’s dresser drawer. “In our case, yes, but only in the right circumstances.” The boy dumps a load of socks into the bag before turning for the boxer pile.

“What kind of circumstances?”

“I don't know—circumstances! They never told us—Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help?” Mom glares at him, hands on his hips, just like before.

God, he missed her.

He springs into action, starts pulling his shit from the closet.

“Only what you can't live without!”

It's not that fucking easy.

This room has become part of him, everything in it has helped define who he was without his family. The stack of DVDs, of books he hasn't read, his collection of movie ticket stubs, the empty bottles of booze from nights he barely remembers, the crappy pictures from a Polaroid camera. It's all part of him now.

“Did you know?” he asks as he shoves a stack of band T-shirts into the bag. “What I was— _am_?”

Mom pauses from where he’s digging through the clutter on the desk, pulling out ID and cash and cigarettes.

“Yeah. I knew.”

Somehow he’s not surprised. It’s fucking sad that he’s not even _surprised_ by the number of lies his mother fed him. She _never_ trusted him.

“You _knew_ what I was and you _never_ thought to tell me?”

“We wanted to protect you—” Mom tries, abandoning his task and reaching for Kylo with placating hands.

“‘ _We’_?”

“Your father and I—”

“Oh, my god. _Dad_ knew?” Kylo throws his hands in the air, fingers itching for the comfort of his pistol. “Han- _fucking_ -Solo knew, but you never thought to tell _me_?”

“You should have Woken so much earlier, usually we do—”

“I _remember_ —” A thousand lives, a thousand childhoods taken from him. Oh, he _remembers_.

“But we didn’t want that for you! We wanted to give you a better life while we could! That’s why—”

“Jesus Christ, the meds? It was the meds, right? The shit you said was for my ADD? _That_ was your way of protecting me? Drugging my past lives into a _fucking coma_?”

 _“Ben,_ ” Mom says, his voice so strong and firm, it shuts Kylo up in an instant. “You _know_ why we Wake young. So that you can learn to _control_ your memories, make sure they don’t overwhelm you, overload your senses. But they also want you to become nothing but a _killer_. One without mercy.” Mom stops, takes Kylo in. “You killed today, didn’t you?”

Kylo just looks away. When he blinks he can still see the man’s body, bloodied and broken on the ground. Just thinking of it sets his heart racing, makes his fingers twitch.

“How you’re feeling right now? Han and I—” Mom stops, voice breaking. Chewie comes to his side, nudging his nose to Mom’s shoulder. “We didn’t want that for you. We wanted you to have a chance at a normal life.”

“Yeah, well, look at where that got me!” Kylo snaps, flinging his arms wide. “First dad, then you and all that serial killer bullshit, and look where I am. _Alone_ . I’m _here_ . Waiting to kill someone I’ve never met in a war I never signed up for because it’s my _destiny_.”

It’s quiet for a while and Kylo can’t look at him, crossing his arms over his chest. Mom just shakes his head.

“It _is_ your destiny. It’s _all_ of our destinies. We’re _Soldiers_ . If you refuse to accept it, if you try to run away from it?” Mom steps forward, so small, but somehow commanding all of Kylo’s attention. “I won’t be able to protect you. They will _hunt_ you down and if they can’t _make_ you finish the job? Complete your destiny? They’ll end you there and then and you’ll be _lucky_ if you come back human, _if_ you come back at all.”

He _knows_ this. He’s heard it a thousand times and then a thousand times more. Still, somehow hearing it from his mom makes it _real_.

He doesn’t say anything for a while and eventually Mom is moving again, dumping his important shit into an old backpack that’s nearly falling apart. Kylo forces himself into movement, fills one bag before opening another.

By the time they leave, he’s laden down with two duffel bags and a backpack, mostly clothes and toiletries, a laptop and a few of those polaroids. He doesn’t know why he bothered, somehow he thinks that the people in the pictures will be glad when he’s gone.

He brings it all to the front door, blinks when he sees Mom kneeling down, forehead pressed to Chewie’s.

“I know,” Mom says with a crooked smile as Chewie licks his face, before standing and opening the door. He turns to Kylo. “Come on, we don't want to be late.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kylo mutters under his breath. Mom grabs one of Kylo’s bags from his shoulder, having to stretch up onto the tips of his toes in order to reach. The bag only barely clears the ground and is almost twice the size of the boy as he heads out the front door.

What the fuck has his life become?

Chewie sits next to the door, tail slowly wagging and looking at Kylo expectantly. Kylo sighs, setting down his bag and crouching in front of the dog.

“I’m sorry, buddy, but you can’t come with me.” The dog’s tail slows to a stop, his happy panting and drooling abruptly stopping. Kylo tries to smile, reaching up with both hands to scratch behind his ears. “Poe will take care of you. You like Poe, right? He’s a nice guy. He’ll be good to you.”

Chewie just whines a little, pushing forward to lick Kylo’s face. He realizes then that he’s crying, a few tears slipping down his face. He drags his forearm across his eyes, glad that at least Mom isn’t there to see him crying over a fucking _dog_.

“I’ll miss you,” Kylo says, gathering Chewie to him in a big hug. The dog tolerates it only for a moment before he’s wiggling, trying to lick at Kylo’s face, tail wagging again. Kylo holds on just a little longer before pulling away and standing.

“See you on the other side, Chewie.”

When he gets outside, his eyes are dry and Poe’s car is idling by the sidewalk.

Mom sits behind the wheel.

“What the _fuck_ —” Kylo screeches, voice breaking before he catches himself and stomps forward, leaning in the open passenger window, “—are you _doing_?”

It’s a damn good thing that it’s late enough that the streets are mostly empty and there’s no one else around to see the _nine-year-old_ driving a car.

“I’m driving,” Mom says, looking at him like it’s painfully obvious. “Hurry up and get in, we got somewhere to be.”

Kylo honestly doesn’t know what to do, but it isn’t like he has any other option, so he tosses his bags in the back seat and climbs in. He glances over to see that Mom’s sitting on a pillow and has wooden blocks strapped to the soles of his feet.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” Kylo asks as he puts on his seatbelt.

Mom just gives him a devious grin. “Please, you think this is my first time?”

Kylo tries not to cling _too_ desperately to the dashboard as they peel away from the curb, all screeching tires and the smell of burning rubber.

He definitely _does not_ watch his apartment building fade away in the rear view mirror.

 

One minute they’re leaving the city limits, and the next, a small hand is shoving his shoulder.

“—up. Ben, wake _up._ ”

Kylo lifts his head, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and looks over at Mom. Somehow it’s a relief to find that it wasn’t just some fucked up dream, that the last twenty-four hours really happened. That his mom is still around.

That he’s still got the memories of a thousand lives jumbled in his head.

“We’re being followed,” Mom says, glancing calmly in the rear view mirror. Kylo’s heart races, checking the mirrors as well and—

Yeah, they’re being followed. And not subtly at all. The other vehicle is a massive black SUV with darkened windows that are probably not legal in this state.

“Don’t worry, I can take care of them.” Kylo moves to roll down the window while his other hand pulls the handgun from the waistband of his pants.

“Put that away!” Mom’s hand closes around his wrist hard enough to hurt and Kylo yanks his arm away with a wince. “You wanna open fire on the _highway_? Get a bunch of civilians killed?”

Okay, yeah, when he puts it like that, maybe it isn’t such a good idea.

But it would have been _badass_.

“What do we do then?” He keeps the gun in his lap, trying not to pout too much as he watches the other car change lanes with them.

“I gotta pee,” Mom says, like that explains everything.

He hates it when she does that.

They take the next exit, a road that’s barely lit by street lamps. They must be in farm country, there’s nothing but birch and evergreen trees crowded close to the road, even around the highway. The headlights of the SUV follow them the whole way.

He barely sees the entrance to the rest stop until they’re pulling into it, a dark little road with a few orange lights scattered around a decrepit little building. No other cars are in sight.

Mom pulls up in front of the little building, throwing the car in park and shutting it off. The SUV stops twenty feet behind them, idling with the brights on.

“Stay here,” Mom says, moving to get out of the car.

Kylo lunges for the boy, grabbing him by the shoulder. “I’m not letting you go out there, on your own! Let me _help_.”

Mom just smiles like he’s said something so _sweet_ before reaching up to pat Kylo on the cheek. “Don’t _worry,_ Benny, I can handle myself.” He reaches into his hoodie and pulls out a mean looking butcher knife. “Trust me.”

Honestly, that doesn’t make him feel better at _all_ , but he knows that look in mom’s eye. He nods and the boy pats him again before stepping out, closing the door behind him and standing there, waiting.

Kylo turns to watch as four people pile out of the SUV, and he immediately dubs them Suit Guy, Bald Dude, Tat Girl and Green Hair. He breathes a sigh of relief: they’re just Grunts, the bottom of the hierarchy. Probably looking to get a promotion by taking out some higher-ups from the other side.

Four-on-one is pretty good odds.

Kylo rolls down his window, gun in hand, safety off. Just in case.

Mom steps up to the group of them, somehow seeming taller than all of them even when he’s two feet shorter. Kylo can just barely make out the squeak of his voice, sees their faces change to a mix of confused fear at whatever Mom said.

It must have pissed them off, ‘cause after that they get _sloppy_. The leader—Green Hair—raises his gun right into Mom’s face and gets his wrist slashed open for his efforts. After that, it’s mostly a blur of movement. Suit Guy dies first, stumbling with his hands flying for his throat, trying to stop the blood gushing out of the open wound. Tat Girl lasts a little longer, she and Bald Guy team up quick, but Mom is ready for them.

Bald Guy fires wide and then Mom is there, punching up into his throat and then driving his butcher knife into the man’s gut once, twice, three times. Tat Girl goes in screaming, a blade in each hand and _she_ could almost give Mom a run for his money. She’s wild, and Mom’s only barely able to block the rain of blows. Being small has its advantages though, and it’s only too easy for Mom to tuck and roll, right between Tat Girl’s wide stance, and jump on her back. He drives the knife down, into that soft spot just above the collarbone, and Tat Girl drops her blades, goes down with a gurgle.

Mom turns and Green Hair is standing there, holding a gun to Mom’s head with his good hand, the other one a bloody mess at his side.

Kylo fires before Green Hair gets the chance, blowing his brains out all over the road and it feels like a kind of release, like something loosens in his chest.

“I could _handle_ him,” the boy says, crossing his arms and glaring. He looks like something out of a horror movie with his cute pajama pants spattered with blood.

“You’re _welcome_ ,” Kylo says, tucking his gun away again. Mom just rolls his eyes, shaking his head and turns, heading for the little building. “Where are _you_ going?”

“I said I gotta pee!”

Right. Kid probably has a tiny bladder.

God, that’s weird to think about.

By the time Mom returns, Kylo has stolen most of the Grunt’s weapons and stashed them in his bag.

“I’ll call the clean-up crew, you get your stuff in their car,” Mom says as he crouches down and starts digging through Suit Guy’s pockets for a cell phone. “Can’t keep rolling around in your friend’s shitbox car.”

Kylo rolls his eyes, mumbling under his breath about having to do _all_ the heavy lifting, before moving to do as he’s told. It _will_ be better to get into a roomier car and hopefully Poe will get his car back.

Somehow, Kylo still hopes that Poe won’t hate him for fucking up his life so badly.

“Your turn to drive,” Mom says when Kylo opens the passenger side door only to have the boy climb in instead.

“But I don’t know where we’re going,” Kylo points out and Mom just _glares_ at him.

“Let me worry about that, you just drive the damn car.” He pulls the door shut, nearly slamming Kylo’s fingers in the door in the process.

Kylo rolls his eyes, going around to jump into the driver’s seat. The engine turns over and Kylo has a moment of panic when he realizes: he’s never driven before. He flounders for a moment then blinks and the memories are there.

Driving semi’s cross-country. Submarines, tanks, airplanes, a fucking minivan. Maybe he can’t drive, but those other lives, those other versions of _him_ , they certainly can.

He throws the SUV into drive and pulls away, loses himself to the familiarity of his hands around a wheel.

 

Mom tells him to stop in front of a rundown hotel in the middle of downtown. They crossed states a couple of times and Kylo hadn’t even noticed the name of the city before they drove past. They all look the same after awhile, they all have the same feel.

Dirty streets, cracked concrete, the smell of gas and sewers lingering in the air. People bustle by, pushing past him, so focused on their path that he becomes nothing more than a roadblock. But he can spot the ones who are different.

It’s something about them, not something he can see or place, more like an aura. Some pass him and he catches their eye and it’s like he can _see_ it: all the lives they’ve lived, the times they’ve died, there and gone in an instant.

“ _Ben._ ”

Kylo turns and Mom is there, hands on his hips and _glaring_. Oops. He must have been calling his name for a while.

“ _What_?” he snaps and Mom rolls his eyes.

“Get your _shit_ and let’s go, I have to get back to my parents before they realize I’m not at the slumber party.”

He disappears round the back of the SUV to the trunk and Kylo sighs.

When the _fuck_ did his life get so fucking weird?

Kylo does all the heavy lifting again, following Mom into the hotel. He doesn’t speak to the guy at the front desk, just heads right for the stairs. The room Mom leads him to isn’t numbered and is unlocked when Mom twists the doorknob.

It’s a shithole.

Yellowed sheets, ratty carpeting, suspicious stains around the toilet. It smells mostly clean though, and when Kylo goes to the window, he sees only the brick walls of the building next door. Good. It means that he won’t have to worry about a fucking sniper taking him out in his sleep. It means he’s got a decent escape route, should he need it.

He almost hopes he’ll need it.

“Well,” Mom says and Kylo turns to see him standing in the door, smiling a little. “This is it.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Kylo tries not to think about the sad way Mom smiles.

This is the last time they’ll see each other.

In this life anyway.

“Come _here_ , Benny,” Mom says, reaching out his hands and Kylo can’t help but obey. He gets down on one knee and immediately he’s got an armful of _child_.

He doesn’t know what to do at first, put off by the fact that a small child is clinging to him so tightly. But then he remembers: this is _Mom_. Suddenly, he’s hugging back just as hard, one hand cupping that fragile head. It’s on the tip of his tongue to beg him not to go, to not leave him again. But he already knows what that answer would be.

Mom always chose her work over Kylo.

They pull away and Kylo is satisfied to see that Mom’s eyes have welled up.

“Fate is on your side,” Mom says firmly, and the words ring in Kylo’s mind. He’s heard them before, in other lives, but in this one too.

Mom dropping him off for his first day of school. Mom going to his first basketball game. Mom comforting him after his first break-up. Mom holding his hand while Dad is lowered into a six foot deep hole.

Fate.

What a load of _bullshit_.

He almost says so, but before either of them can say anything more, Mom turns his back on Kylo and strides away, down the hall and then out of sight.

Gone.

 

It takes a long time for Kylo to fall asleep, knowing and not-knowing what the next day will bring. He knows he’ll be meeting an Atlas and, in the past, that meant he’d find out who his Target is.

Well, he always knows _who_ they are, but never _what_ they are. He doesn’t know what they look like, where they are, what they do for a living before they find each other.

He knows that, as a Soldier, it’s his destiny—his fucking _fate_ —to find his Target and end them. Just like always. Take their life by any means necessary or die trying.

And then?

And then he offs himself.

He goes through all this trouble for a fight to the death and he doesn’t even get to enjoy the glory of it.

 _Fate_.

On the drive Mom couldn’t seem to stop talking about fate, about _destiny_. She talked about it with reverence, like he should be proud to be one of those chosen by fate to fight in this war.

When has fate ever done anything for him? When has fate ever gone so far for him?

Thanks to her precious fate, Kylo lost everyone he ever cared about. But he’s not allowed to be bitter about it. No, instead he’s just fate's bitch.

It comforts him to imagine what his Target will look like this time. He wonders if they’re short or tall, if they’re built like a Mac truck or as thin as a needle. He hopes at least that they’re a _challenge_ , that they can make his last few moments in this life _interesting._

Kylo sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning on the lumpy, too-short bed most of the night. He dreams of dying, over and over, but at least now he can recognize the dreams for what they really are. He wakes each time he dies, wakes whenever the final blade is shoved through his chest, when the final bullet shreds through his skin. He wakes expecting there to be pain, blood, missing limbs. But each time he’s whole.

And a sweaty mess.

In the early hours of the morning, there’s a knock on his door.

Kylo answers, stripped down to his briefs with a gun in his hand. The man standing on the other side is short—shorter than Kylo anyway—with black hair tucked under a newsboy cap and watery eyes with dark circles underneath. Kylo looks him over, noting the distinct lump of a gun in a holster under his jacket. A Grunt, one that’s on his side this time.

He hopes, anyway.

“Oh, my god, it’s _you,_ ” the Grunt says, mouth open, and Kylo finds himself straightening up, tucking the gun into the waistband of his underwear.

“Yeah, it’s me. Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, s-sorry, I-I’m M-Mitaka, sir,” the Grunt—Mitaka—extends his hand to shake and Kylo just glares at it. “I’m—I’m here to pick you up?”

Well, this one won’t last very long.

“Sure, let me get my shit together,” Kylo says, turning his back and leaving the door open. Mitaka takes the silent invitation and steps inside, closing the door behind him. Kylo goes about tossing his dirty clothes and laptop back into his bags, dragging out clean-smelling clothes as he goes. “You got a last name, Mitaka?”

“Oh, Mitaka is my last name. First name Dopheld, s-sir.”

“Weird fucking name, bro,” Kylo says as he hikes jeans up over his hips, a band shirt looped around his neck.

“Your name is _Kylo Ren_ ,” Mitaka fires back quickly, then pales like he didn’t realize what he said.

Kylo lets him sweat it out for a full minute, staring at him blankly and secretly enjoying the way the guy looks like he’s starting to shake.

“Fair enough.”

Kylo makes Mitaka lug his bags down to the car waiting out front and Mitaka does it almost eagerly. He tells Mitaka to open the door for him to get in and Mitaka does it. He tells Mitaka that they’re stopping for burgers first and Mitaka doesn’t even argue.

Eventually, he gets Mitaka talking. Kylo’s got a mouthful of burger when Mitaka says what an _honour_ it is to meet him, to help him out. Tells Kylo he’s been working hard to become a Soldier, that Kylo’s lives have been an inspiration to him. That Atlas Maz has promised him a promotion soon if he can work hard enough for it.

Kylo doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s all bullshit.

Doesn’t matter how hard a Grunt works, they’ll never get promoted. And the ones who do? They’re not the ones who worked hard for it or who killed enough Soldiers to earn it. They’re the ones with _connections_ , they’re the ones who _know_ shit.

They’re the ones with _leverage_.

But Mitaka just goes on and on and there’s really no joy to be had in wrecking the guy’s dreams. He’ll find out the hard way, like they all do.

Mitaka drives him out to the warehouse district, almost entirely abandoned now. Most of the fence around the buildings has been torn away or cut through and the buildings are covered in graffiti. But the smell of fresh water wafting off the bay is nice, a pleasant relief.

Mitaka drops him off outside a huge red building with only one entrance: a black door with no handle on the outside and a smaller black box beside it. Kylo grabs his bags out of the trunk, turning for the door—

“Hey! Mr. Ren!”

Kylo turns back and Mitaka is leaning across the car’s centre console. “What?”

“Can you—” Mitaka swallows, blinking up at Kylo, “Can you put a good word in for me with Maz?”

Pitiful fucking idiot.

“Sure, dude. Whatever.”

Mitaka beams and Kylo wonders if he’ll get in trouble if he kills Mitaka now just to spare him the fruitless hope.

“Thanks!”

Mitaka pulls away, leaving Kylo standing in front the door. He steps forward and presses the button on the black box.

Immediately, it buzzes to life.

“Who goes there?” A frail, shaky voices screeches.

“Uh—Kylo Ren.”

“ _Who?!_ ” Somehow the voice screeches even louder.

“ _Jesus_ —Ben! Ben Organa!”

“ _Oh_ ! It’s you! _Finally_! Come in, come in, what are you still standing around out there for?”

Kylo rolls his eyes as the door clicks, catching a glimpse of a camera midway up the building. He gives the camera the finger before yanking the door open and stepping inside.

“Took you long enough, Ben Organa.”

Kylo looks down. And down and down and down.

The woman before him barely comes up to his hip. She’s _old as fuck_ , with russet-brown skin and a wrinkled face framed by dark, springy coils of hair. Her eyes almost look too big for her face, wide and piercing and made even more intimidating by a massive pair of glasses. She’s wearing heavy gold rings on all ten fingers and a grey pantsuit with a bright orange blouse. She looks _nothing_ like he thought she would.

“Who the fuck are you?” Kylo blurts out and the woman just laughs at him.

“What—you don’t recognize me?” She’s grinning now, shaking her head, bangles on her wrists jingling as she wags her finger up at him. “I knew we should have Woken you up _years_ ago. I’m your Atlas, kid. Now follow me.”

She takes off and Kylo stares after her in shock for a moment before finally realizing he’s standing there, gaping like an idiot. She leads him down a hall that opens into a massive room, probably what used to be a manufacturing floor, but is now taken up by an almost endless array of desks. People—Grunts, he realizes—bustle back and forth, bend over laptops, chatter on phones. The crowd parts as he and Maz walk by, Grunts scurrying to get out of her way. A few of them stop what they’re doing to stare at him as he and Maz walk by and Kylo wishes he’d made more of an effort to look halfway decent.

Maz leads him up a set of metal stairs that ends in an office with big windows overlooking the manufacturing floor. From this vantage, Kylo can see the armory tucked away in the corner, the shooting range beside it. His fingers _itch_ at the thought of getting inside that.

“Are you going to stand there gawking all day?” Kylo turns to see Maz sitting at her desk, a lit cigarette between her long fingers.

She bids Kylo to sit and he does, dumping his bags on the ground at his feet.

“So what do you have on my Target?”

“Ha!” Maz bursts out, slapping her hand on her desk as she cackles, “You’re not ready for your Target.”

Fucking _typical_.

“What the fuck do you _mean_ I’m not ready,” Kylo snarls, leaning forward, “Why the fuck did you drag me all the way out here then?”

“To train.” Maz says it like it’s so simple.

God, she reminds him of Mom and he’s getting _real_ sick of this trip down memory lane bullshit.

“ _‘Train’_ ?” Kylo repeats in disbelief. “You do know that I have about a thousand lifetimes of _assassin_ memories banging around in my head, right?”

“Yes, and you need to train,” Maz says simply, taking a final pull on her cigarette, stabbing it out in a nearby ashtray before getting up and grabbing a stepstool from beside her desk.

“What the fuck does—”

“You’ve been Asleep for _too long_ , Kylo Ren,” Maz says, waving away his words as she brings the stepstool to the wall of metal file drawers behind her desk. “You were supposed to wake up _so_ much earlier.”

“Yeah, tell that to my mother.” Kylo slumps back in his chair, shaking his head.

“You’re still adjusting,” Maz explains as she rifles through drawers, barely able to reach the topmost ones even with her stool. “You’re like a toddler learning how to walk, you need to _train_ —aha!”

Kylo peers around, watches as Maz pulls out a thick folder from the drawer, climbing down and slamming it onto her desk. There’s a name scribbled in black ink on the tab of the folder that Kylo can only barely make out.

“What’s this?” he asks and Maz gestures for him to take the folder.

Inside is a picture of tall, older man with white hair. Kylo recognizes him as an old friend of his mother’s, someone who shook his hand at her funeral.

“Tekka? _Tekka’s_ one of us too?”

“Yes,” Maz says, lighting up another cigarette as soon as she’s seated back behind her desk. “He went rogue a few years back, Grunts finally tracked him down.”

“And? What do you want me to do? Bring him in?”

Maz rolls her eyes, shakes her head, cursing to herself in Luo.

“No. I want you to kill him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you enjoyed it! if you have any questions, feel free to send me a message through my [tumblr](http://slutstiels.tumblr.com/)!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry that this took so long for me to get out! I really wanted to make sure that I was taking my time and happy with the chapter! I hope you enjoyed it! :D


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